W. N. Hutchinson

What convenient covers they are—and what excellent shelter they furnish for game, when planted with holly, laurel, and other evergreens!—especially if the proprietor, in a moment of sporting enthusiasm, has consented to his keeper’s request, and had some of the trees half-felled, so that the branches lying on the ground live and grow, deriving nourishment from the sap still flowing through the uncut bark. Perhaps gorse forms the best ground cover for the preservation of game; but it is far from being the most agreeable to shoot in. It has, however, a great merit—it is much disliked by poachers. There should be good roosting-trees; and the different kinds of fir—spruce particularly—give most security, their thick, spreading branches affording much concealment at all seasons of the year. They are, too, of quick growth. But the most favourably planted covers will prove unattractive unless there is a constant supply of water within a reasonable distance. An old brother officer of mine, who has property in Suffolk, argues,—and most will think correctly,—that for the preservation of game, beltings should not run round the external part of an estate (as is often the case,) but lie well within it, and at some distance from a high road.

Talking of beltings and pheasants, as some sporting Griffin (to use an Indian expression) may come across this book, I may as well, for his sake, mention, that pheasants are generally prevented from running to the further end of a belting, and then rising in one dense cloud, by a man sent ahead striking two sticks together, or making some other slight noise which, without too much alarming the birds, yet prevents their running past him. As the guns approach him he gets further forward and takes up another position, keeping wide of the cover whilst he is on the move. Should the Griffin make one of the shooting party, he is advised to bear in mind that the guns should keep close to the hedge (or rails), that any game on the point of “breaking” may not so readily observe them, and in consequence beat a retreat. By-the-bye, my young friend, should you wish your host to give you another invitation to his covers never let him see you carrying your barrels horizontally. If you are a bit of a soldier you will know what I mean when I say that, combining due preparation for prompt action with security to him who may be skirmishing near, your gun can be conveniently borne across the open at the “Slope arms” of the sergeant’s fusil. When you are in cover (or your dog draws upon game), it might be carried much in the position of “Port arms.” At the moment you level, following the example of the best pigeon shots, place your left hand well in advance of the poise. If you have any fears of the barrels bursting, leave them at home. Your steadiest position is with the elbow held nearly perpendicularly under the gun: whereas your right elbow ought to be almost in a horizontal line with your shoulder, thus furnishing a convenient hollow for the reception of the butt. The firmer you grasp the stock the less is the recoil. That amusing fellow Wanostrocht, in his work on cricketing (“Felix on the Bat”), writes, “The attitude of en garde of the left-handed swordsman is the attitude of play for the right-handed batsman,”—and you, my supposed Griffin, may rest assured that it is the best position your feet and legs can take on a bird’s rising, but the right foot might be with advantage a little more to the right. Wanostrocht continues, “The knees are bent; and the body, well balanced, is prepared,” you may add, “to turn steadily to the right or left according to the flight of the bird.” In nine cases out of ten the common advice to “keep both eyes open” when firing is extremely judicious. But some men are “left-eyed;” a matter you have probably little thought about; and yet it is of consequence, for if you are “left-eyed,” your aim from the right shoulder (both eyes being open) cannot be correct. To determine whether or not you are “right-eyed,” look steadily, with both eyes open, at any small object near you,—rapidly raise a finger (of either hand) perpendicularly, endeavouring to cover the object. Instantly close the left eye. If you find that your finger lies in the direct line between the object and your right eye, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you are “right-eyed;” but if your finger, instead of intercepting the object, is wide of the mark, at once close the right eye and open the left, when you will, in all probability, perceive that your finger lies directly between your left eye and the object, thereby showing that you are “left-eyed.” I hope it may not be so, as, unless you can shoot from the left shoulder, you ought to close the left eye when bringing your gun to the poise, until from practice you become “right-eyed.” The odds are in favour of your being right-legged as well as right-eyed, which important point will be settled, I hope to your satisfaction, should you ever be under the disagreeable necessity of having to kick an impertinent fellow downstairs. Never shoot in a hurry. Strive to acquire coolness—in other words, strive to acquire such a command over your trigger-finger that it shall never bend until so ordered by your judgment. Your eye will inform your reason of the exact moment when you ought to pull, and your finger, submissive to reason, ought to wait for that precise moment, and not yield to any nervousness. Look with the greatest intensity at the bird as it rises, and coolly observe its line of flight while deliberately bringing the barrels to your shoulder. Steadiness will be increased by your not removing the gun from your shoulder the instant you have fired. Never fire when your shot can be of no more advantage than a single bullet. If you have a bet about killing a jack snipe, seize the favourable moment for pulling the trigger when the pellets will be spread over a disk of more than a yard in diameter. He will then be zigzagging some thirty-five or forty yards from you; and if your aim is taken at this moment a full foot in advance of his general line of flight, there is little chance of his escaping unpeppered (and one grain will suffice), however adroitly he may turn and twist. For any kind of bird flying at that distance rapidly down wind and crossing you, your gun ought to be pitched much further forward. A still greater allowance should be made if the distance be considerable: and greater elevation should be then given to the barrels, as the grains of shot will become deflected. The same rule holds with birds rising. Aim must be taken above them. There is always more fear of your firing too much to the rear and too low, than too much to the front and too high. Fancy that hares and rabbits have only heads—and get into the habit of looking at no other part,—nay, of looking yet further ahead. The best cover-shot I know says, that he aims at a rabbit rushing through gorse or underwood a yard in front of the spot where he last caught a glimpse of it. Rabbits halt for a moment the instant they get hidden by cover—not so hares. That their hands and eyes may work in unison, novices have been recommended to hang on the flight of swallows with an unloaded gun. It would be better practice to hang on a full foot or more in front of the birds. To save your locks use snap caps, and pull the very instant you think your aim is correct. No second aim can be so effective as the first. The more you thus practise (and at game especially, in order to overcome any nervous sensation occasioned by birds rising) before you commence using powder, the more certain is it that you will eventually become a cool, steady shot. After having commenced the campaign in right earnest, should you be shooting unsteadily or nervously, you would do well to have the philosophy to go up a few times to your dog’s point with uncapped nipples, and by taking (long after the birds are on the wing, but yet within shot) a deliberate aim reassure yourself of the folly of all hurry and precipitancy. Lest you should (as often happens in spite of every previous resolution) involuntarily pull the trigger sooner than you intend, keep your finger off it until the very instant you wish to fire.[116] If you shoot with a muzzle loader and carry one of Sykes’s spring-shot pouches—at present in such general use—by having its nozzle lengthened (some few are made long),—I mean by having a cylinder of nearly three inches in length welded to its end,—you will be able to load quicker than most of your fellow-sportsmen—particularly if you use a loading-rod: the best are of cane, because the material is light and tough. You can make the long nozzle of the shot-pouch (its end being cut square, i.e. at a right angle to its length) force the wad over the powder so far down the barrel before you press the pouch-spring to pour in the charge of shot, that you need not draw your ramrod to drive home until after you have inserted the shot-wad. Using a long nozzle has also this great advantage, that the shot is packed more densely than the powder. In the new German copper cap musket (whose long range is now, 1854, much spoken of,) to keep the powder loose when the charge is rammed home, a thick peg, nearly one and a half inches long, is fixed longitudinally in the centre of the chamber,—I mean, in the direction of the axis of the bore. This cylindrical peg, which is much like the tige invented by Colonel Touvenin in 1828, arrests the jagged bullet at the precise moment when the powder is sufficiently pressed to remove all chance of the slightly six-grooved barrel’s bursting; and yet not so much pressed as to interfere with the complete ignition of every grain. These lie loose round the peg. The want of this complete ignition (owing to the rapidity of explosion not giving time for all the particles of closely-wedged powder being fired) has been the only valid objection yet offered to the detonating system. For strong shooting, the wad over the powder should be much thicker than the wad placed over the shot. The several waddings now sold greased with some mercurial preparation undeniably retard leading—a great gain. If the long nozzle of the shot-pouch fits close within the barrel, on unloading your gun you can easily return the shot into the pouch without losing a grain. As a concluding piece of advice let me recommend you, my young friend, to make but a light breakfast whenever you expect a heavy day’s work,—take out, however, a few sandwiches for luncheon.

Note to 283.—Trapping.—Owl as decoy.—Hen Harrier.—Keeper’s Vermin dogs.—Stoats.

A good book for gamekeepers on trapping is still a great desideratum. It should be written by a practical man who is a bit of a naturalist; for no trapper can be very successful unless he is well acquainted with the haunts and habits of the many kinds of vermin it is his business to destroy. Mr. C——e’s gamekeeper, at R——n, Perthshire, who was well aware of the great importance of diligently searching for their nests in the breeding season, was at length amply repaid for often watching the proceedings of a hen-harrier frequently seen hovering over a small wood not far from his cottage. He could never perceive that she alighted on any of the trees; but from the time of year, and her so perseveringly returning to the spot, he felt convinced that her nest was not far off. Ineffectual, however, was every search. At length, one morning he was lucky enough to remark that something fell from her. He hunted close in that direction,—found the nest, and the young ones regaling on a snipe whose remains were still warm; evidently the identical bird she had most adroitly dropped from a considerable height into the middle of her hungry brood. It would have been very interesting to have observed how she managed on a windy day. Probably she would have taken an easy shot by sweeping close to the trees. In Germany much winged vermin is destroyed with the aid of a decoy horned owl. The keeper having selected a favourable spot on a low hillock where the bird is likely to be observed, drives an upright post into the ground, the upper part of which is hollowed. The bird is placed on a perch much shaped like the letter T. A string is attached to the bottom of the perpendicular part, which is then dropped into the hollow or socket. The armed keeper conceals himself in a loopholed sentry-box, prepared of green boughs, at a suitable distance, amidst sheltering foliage. His pulling the string raises the perch. The owl, to preserve its balance, flutters its wings. This is sure to attract the notice of the neighbouring magpies, hawks, crows, &c. Some from curiosity hover about, or, still chattering and peering, alight on the neighbouring trees (of course, standing invitingly within gun-shot); others, having no longer any reverence for the bird of Wisdom in his present helpless condition, wheel round and round, every moment taking a sly peck at their fancied enemy, while their real foe sends their death-warrant from his impervious ambuscade.

Talking of vermin, I am reminded that J——s H——d, an old gamekeeper with whom I am acquainted, avers that one of his craft can hardly be worth his salt unless he possesses “a regular good varmint of a dog.” It should be of a dark colour, not to betray so readily the movements of his master to interested parties. He says he once owned one, a bull-terrier, that was, to again quote the old man’s words, “worth his weight in gold to a gamekeeper;” that it was incredible the quantity of ground-vermin, of every kind, the dog killed, which included snakes and adders—destroyers of young birds of every sort, and it is said of eggs (but this it is difficult to conceive, unless we imagine them to be crushed in the same manner as the boa-constrictor murders his victims, a supposition without a shadow of proof—small eggs, however, might be swallowed whole),—that he was perpetually hunting, but never noticed game—had an excellent nose, and, on occasions when he could not run into the vermin, would unerringly lead his master to the hole in the old bank, tree, or pile of fagots where it had taken refuge; when, if it was a stoat or weasel, and in a place where the report of a gun was not likely to disturb game, the keeper would bring him into “heel,” wait patiently awhile, and then, by imitating the cry of a distressed rabbit, endeavour to entice the delinquent to come forth and be shot. If this ruse failed, H——d quickly prepared a trap that generally sealed the fate of the destructive little creature. As the dog retrieved all he caught, the old barn-door was always well covered with recent trophies. Old trophies afford no evidence of a keeper’s diligence.

The dog invariably accompanied his master during his rounds at night, and had great talents for discovering any two-legged intruder. On finding one he would quietly creep up, and then, by running round and round him as if prepared every moment to make a spring, detain him until joined by the keeper; all the while barking furiously and adroitly avoiding every blow aimed at his sconce.[117]

He was moreover (but this has little to do with his sporting habits), a most formidable enemy to dogs of twice his power; for he would cunningly throw himself upon his back if overmatched, and take the same unfair advantage of his unfortunate opponent which Polygars are trained to do when they are attacking the wild hog (445).

I relate this story about H——d and his bull-terrier because few men ever were so successful in getting up a good show of game on a property. It was a favourite observation of his that it was not game,—it was vermin, that required looking after; that these did more injury than the largest gang of poachers, as the depredations of the latter could be stopped, but not those of the former. There are few who, on reflection, will not agree with the old keeper. Stoats are so bloodthirsty, that if one of them come across a brood of young pheasants he will give each in succession a deadly gripe on the back of the neck close to the skull, not to make any use of the carcasses, but in the epicurean desire to suck their delicate brains. All who are accustomed to “rabbiting” know that even tame ferrets evince the same murderous propensities, and commit indiscriminate slaughter, apparently in the spirit of wanton destructiveness.

From all, however, that I have seen and heard, I fancy no animal so much prevents the increase of partridges and pheasants, as the hooded crow.

An intelligent man, C——s M——n (an admirable dresser of salmon-flies), whose veracity I have no reason to distrust, assured me that he had seen about the nest of a “hoodie” (as he called the bird), the shells of not less than two hundred eggs, all nearly of the partridge and pheasant. He told me that he once had an opportunity of observing the clever proceedings of a pair of these marauders, bent on robbing the nest on which a hen-pheasant was actually sitting. One of the depredators by fluttering round her, and slily pecking at her unprotected stern, at length so succeeded in irritating her, that she got up to punish him. By a slow scientific retreat, he induced her to pursue him for a few steps, thus affording his confederate, who had concealed himself, the opportunity of removing certainly one egg, perhaps two. By repetitions of this sham attack and retreat, the adroit pilferers eventually managed to empty the nest.

The above mentioned man had been brought up as a gamekeeper in Cumberland. He became an excellent trapper; and was afterwards employed on an estate near the Cheviot Hills, where, in a short time, he got up a decent stock of game by destroying the vermin. He found the grounds swarming with “hoodies;” but it was not until their breeding season the following spring, when he was favoured in his operations by a frost, that he succeeded in capturing them in considerable numbers. On the ground becoming hard, he, for nearly a fortnight, fed certain spots on the banks of the Teviot with wood pigeons and rabbits, besides any vermin that he contrived to shoot. By that time the “hoodies” habitually resorted, without distrust, to those places for food. He then set his traps baited with all such delicacies,—but he considered a small rabbit, or a pigeon lying on its back with outstretched wings, as the most tempting of his invitations; and it often happened that he had scarcely disappeared before the click of the closing spring apprised him of a capture. When his frequent success had rendered the birds shy, he set his traps in the adjacent stream, covering their sides with grass or rushes,—the attractive bait alone appearing above the surface. For three reasons he regarded the banks of the river as the best situation for his traps—he could, as just mentioned, conceal them in the water on the birds becoming too suspicious—secondly, streams are much resorted to by the “hoodie,” who searches diligently for any chance food floating on the water,—and lastly, the rooks, of which there were many in that part of the country, from naturally hunting inland, the reverse of the “hoodie,” were the less likely to spring his traps.

From the short, fuller neck,—the head bent peeringly downwards,—but, above all, from the hawk-like movements of the wing, the sportsman will be able to distinguish the hooded-crow from the rook at a moment when he may be too distant to observe the black and more hooked bill,—and never let him spare. He should be suspicious of every bird he sees crossing and re-crossing a field,—in reality hunting it with as regular a beat as a pointer’s.

M——n killed a great many stoats and weasels with unbaited traps. As it is the habit of these little animals, when hunting a hedge-row, to prefer running through a covered passage to turning aside, he used, where the ground favoured him by slightly rising, to cut a short drain, about a foot in breadth, and rather less in depth, parallel and close to the hedge, covering it with the sods he had removed. At the bottom of these drains he fixed his traps, as soon as the animals became accustomed to the run, and rarely failed in securing every member of the weasel family which had taken up its abode in the vicinity. The best description of hutch-trap (which many prefer to the gin-trap) is made entirely of wire, excepting the bottoms. All appears so light and airy that little suspicion is awakened. The doors fall on anything running over the floor. Of course, this trap is baited unless set in a run. An enticing bait is drawn towards it from several distant points.

To many keepers it ought to be of much advantage to read Colquhoun’s advice on trapping, appended to “The Moor and the Loch.”

Note to 407.—Rearing Pheasants.—Cantelo.—Pheasantries.—Mr. Knox.

With respect to rearing pheasants under a barn-door hen, he observed that they required meat daily. He said that he had been in the habit of shooting rabbits for those he had brought up, and of giving them the boiled flesh when cut up into the smallest pieces, mixed with their other food. He remarked, farther, that the chicks ought to be allowed to run upon the grass at dawn of day—which was seldom regularly done, such early rising being at times not equally congenial to the taste of all the parties concerned.

The treatment he recommended seems reasonable, for those who have watched the habits of pheasants must have remarked that, immediately upon quitting their roosts, they commence searching in the moist grass for food (greatly to the benefit of the farmer), and do not resort to the corn-fields until after the dew is off the ground, and the rising sun has warned the grubs, slugs, worms, and caterpillars to seek concealment.

Ornithologists, and men who have studied the subject, are agreed that partridges in a yet larger degree benefit the agriculturalist by picking up, during the greater part of the year, myriads of worms and insects; besides consuming immense quantities of weeds and their seeds. They rival the ill-used mole in the number of wire-worm they destroy. These facts have been incontrovertibly proved by an examination of the crops of the birds at all seasons.

I am not wishing to fight any battles for hares and rabbits. They do great mischief,—but in fairness it must be said for the hare, that he commits far less waste and havoc than the other. A rabbit will wander from turnip to turnip, nibbling a bit from each, whereby the air is admitted[118] and the whole root destroyed; whereas a hare, if undisturbed, will sit down before one head, and not move until she has devoured the whole of its contents, merely leaving a rind not much thicker than an egg-shell. It is, however, undeniable that both of them do much mischief to young plantations at all seasons of the year, and they will even eat the bark off, and so kill some kinds of full-grown trees, when snow is on the ground and food scarce.

To the health of many, usually considered only grain-feeding birds, a certain portion of animal food appears essential. It is not solely for grain that the common fowl scrapes the dung-hill. Throw a bone of a cooked brother or sister to a brood of chickens confined in a poultry-yard, and see with what avidity they will demolish the remains of their defunct relative. Fowls never fatten on board ship; occasionally owing to want of gravel,—constantly to want of animal food. In a long voyage a bird that dies in a coop is often found by “Billyducks”[119] half eaten up; and it is questionable whether a sickly companion be not occasionally sacrificed by his stronger associates to appease their natural craving for flesh. In the West Indies the accidental upsetting of an old sugar-cask in a farm-yard, and its scattering forth a swarm of cock-roaches, sets all the feathered tribe in a ferment. The birds that had been listlessly sauntering about, or standing half-asleep in the friendly shade, suddenly seem animated with the fury of little imps,—and, influenced by a taste in every way repugnant to our feelings, with outstretched necks and fluttering wings race against each other for possession of the offensive, destructive insects, evincing in the pursuit an agility and a rapidity of movement of which few would imagine them to be capable.

‘FOUL’ FEEDING.

The keeper just spoken of used to rear his pheasants within doors, or rather in an outhouse, the floor of which was in part covered with sods of turf,—but I think J——s T——n, another of the craft whom I know well, pursues a better and far less troublesome plan. He selects a piece of clover[120] facing the south, and sheltered from the north and east winds by a contiguous small copse which he feels assured can harbour no destructive vermin. On this grass-plat, if the weather is fine, he places the common barn-door hens,—each with her brood the moment they are hatched,—under separate small coops. Two or three boards run from each coop, forming a temporary enclosure, which is removed in about a week on the little inmates gaining strength. If he has any fear of their being carried off by hawks, &c., he fixes a net overhead. The hens had sat on the eggs in an outhouse.

The first food given to the chicks is soaked bread,—and white of eggs cut up fine. The colour (is not that a bull?) catches their eye, which is the alleged reason for all their food being given to them white. Ants’ nests are procured for them,—of the red ant first,—of the larger kind, when the chicks become so strong that the insects cannot injure them—later in the season, wasps’ nests. When there is a difficulty in procuring any of these nests, curd is often given; but should it become sour, as frequently happens in hot weather, it is likely to occasion dysentery,[121] therefore oatmeal porridge made with milk is considered a safer diet. This is eagerly picked up when scattered about, sprinkled as it were,—and the weaker chicks are thus enabled to secure a fair share. T——n breeds a quantity of maggots for them,—and at no expense,—in the adjacent copse. Whatever vermin he kills (whether winged or four-footed) he hangs up under a slight awning as a protection from the rain. On the flesh decaying the maggots drop into the box placed underneath to receive them. The insects soon become clean, if sand and bran is laid at the bottom of the box, and it is an interesting sight to see the excited little birds eagerly hurrying from all quarters to the grass-plat on the keeper striking the tray with his knuckles to invite them to partake of some choice maggots, spread out on sanded boards.

If a piece of carrion is placed under a wire netting near the coops, the chicks will feed with avidity on the flies it attracts.

Change of food is beneficial:—therefore, boiled barley or rice, is often substituted, or oatmeal, or Indian-corn meal,—mixed with the flesh of boiled rabbits.

Saucers of clean water are placed about. Water in a dirty state is very injurious. It is not of any depth, lest the chicks should wet their feathers when standing in it. Occasionally iron saucers are used, ingeniously designed on the ridge and furrow plan. The ridges are so little apart, that the chicks can insert no more than their heads into the furrows. As cleanliness must in all things be preserved, the coops are shifted a few feet aside twice a day.

The chicks soon quit the hens to roost in the shrubs, which afford welcome shade during the mid-day heat; but the imprisoned matrons are still useful, as their plaintive call prevents the chicks from becoming irreclaimable truants. As they have always the opportunity of running in the grass and copse, where they find seeds and insects, they quickly become independent, and learn to forage for themselves,—yet when fully grown up they are not so likely to stray away as birds who have been more naturally reared, and who have been made wanderers even in their infancy. This is a great advantage.

That the chicks may come upon fresh ground for seeds and insects, the situation of the coops may be occasionally changed. If liable to be attacked by vermin at night, a board can be fixed in front of each coop.

Partridges may be reared by the same means. But instances are rare of their laying while in a state of captivity.

That the young birds may be able to rid their bodies of vermin, they should be provided with small heaps of sand protected from rain, and dry earth, in which they will gladly rub themselves.

If you design rearing pheasants annually, always keep a few of the tame hens and a cock at home. By judicious management these will supply a large quantity of eggs for hatching,—eggs that you can ensure, when in their freshest state, being placed under barn-door hens. Keep the eggs in a cool place. I cannot believe that you will ever be guilty—for it is guilt, great guilt—of the sin of purchasing eggs. “Buyers make thieves,”—and one sneaking, watching, unwinged pilferer on two legs would do more mischief in the month of May than dozens of magpies or hooded crows.

Pheasants so soon hunt for their own subsistence, that they are brought to maturity at less expense than common fowls.

Since the publication of the second edition, I have had an opportunity of talking to Mr. Cantelo, the clever inventor of the novel hatching machine, whereby (following nature’s principle) heat is imparted only to the upper surface of eggs. He annually rears a large quantity of all kinds of poultry, besides partridges and pheasants, and I believe no one in England is so experienced in these matters.

He found it best not to give food to any kind of chicks for the two first days after they were hatched. As they would not all break the shell together, it is probable that in a state of nature many of them would be for, at least, this period under the hen before she led them forth to feed. To young turkeys and pheasants he gave no food for three days. They would then eat almost anything voraciously, whereas, when fed sooner, they become dainty and fastidious.

He recommends that the lean of raw beef, or any meat (minced fine, as if for sausages) be given to partridge or pheasant chicks, along with their other food,[122] or rather before their other food, and only in certain quantities; for if they are fed too abundantly on what they most relish, they are apt to gorge themselves, and they will seldom refuse meat, however much grain they may have previously eaten. He said that they should be liberally dieted, but not to repletion,—that once a day they should be sensible of the feeling of hunger.

It certainly is most consonant to nature, that the flesh given to the chicks should not be cooked; and Mr. Cantelo observed that it would be immediately found on trial, that young birds prefer that which is undressed,—nay, that which has a bloody appearance.

He considers maggots (gentles) an admirable diet, and he gave me a valuable hint about them. This is, that they be fattened on untainted meat, placed in the sand-box into which they fall. The pieces of meat will soon be drilled like a honey-comb, and the little crawlers, by becoming in a day or two large and fat, will prove a far more nourishing diet than when given in the attenuated state to which they are commonly reduced, by the present starving process of cleansing.

Mr. Cantelo has remarked that guinea-birds require food at an earlier period after they are hatched than any other sort of chick,—and that they and ducklings eat most meat,—turkey-poultry least.

Wet is injurious to all chickens (the duck-tribe excepted); and when the hen, from being confined, cannot lead her brood astray, they will, of themselves, return to her coop on finding the grass too damp.

Mr. Cantelo is strongly of opinion, that all diseases to which infant birds are liable are contagious. He advises, in consequence, that the moment any one of the brood is attacked with diarrhoea, sore eyes, or sneezing, it be instantly separated from the others.

He considers all chickens safe from ordinary diseases on their gaining their pen-feathers.

He has found that nest eggs, not sat on for twelve hours, do not lose their vitality. This shows that eggs taken by mowers should not be hastily thrown away, in consequence of a considerable delay unavoidably occurring before they can be placed under a hen to complete their hatching.

Pheasants sit about five days longer than common fowls.

Mr. Cantelo recommends that eggs sent from a distance be packed in oats. He had succeeded in hatching some he had kept, as an experiment, upwards of two months in a temperate atmosphere, turning them daily. This continued vitality is, however, seldom a consideration as regards pheasants; for the earlier in the season the birds can be produced the better. It is a great advantage to have five months’ growth and feed in them by the first of October.

Mr. Knox, in his interesting work on “Game-birds and Wildfowl,” has given some good advice about the rearing and preservation of pheasants. I will make some extracts from it, and, I think, many would do well to read the whole book.

With respect to a pheasantry for procuring eggs, he is of opinion that in March,—the time when the cocks begin to fight,—the enclosure containing the stock of birds should be divided, by high hurdles, or wattles, into partitions, so that each cock may be told off with three hens into a distinct compartment. He advises that no harem should be greater in a state of confinement. His opportunities for forming a correct judgment have probably been greater than mine; but I must observe that I have known of ladies, kept in such small seraglios, being worried to death. “The larger the compartments,” he says, “the better;” “a heap of bushes and a mound of dry sand in each;” an attendant to visit them once (and but once) a day, to take in the food of “barley, beans, peas, rice, or oats; boiled potatoes, Jerusalem artichokes, and Swedish turnips;”[123] and to remove whatever eggs may have been laid during the preceding twenty-four hours.

The accidental destruction of the net overhanging Mr. Knox’s pheasantry, and the escape of the cocks, led to his ascertaining a fact of much importance; viz. that pinioned hens (one wing amputated at the carpal joint—“the wounds soon healed”) kept in an unroofed enclosure, near a cover, into which (what are called) “tame-bred pheasants” have been turned, will always attract sufficient mates—mates in a more healthy state than confined birds,—and that the eggs will be more numerous, and unusually productive.

I can easily imagine that such matrimonial alliances are sure to be formed wherever the opportunity offers; and if I were establishing a pheasantry, I would adopt the plan Mr. Knox recommends, unless withheld by the fear that more than one cock might gain admittance to the hens; for I am aware of facts which incline me to think, that, in such instances, the eggs may be unserviceable. At a connexion’s of mine, where the poultry-yard lies close to a copse, hybrid chickens have often been reared—the offspring of barn-door hens and cock-pheasants not tame-bred.

Mr. Knox elsewhere observes, that the hen-pheasants kept in confinement should be tame-bred; that is, be “birds which have been hatched and reared under domestic hens, as those which are netted, or caught, in a wild state, will always prove inefficient layers.” “About the fourth season a hen’s oviparous powers begin to decline, although her maternal qualifications, in other respects, do not deteriorate until a much later period. It is, therefore, of consequence to enlist, occasionally, a few recruits, to supply the place of those females who have completed their third year, and who then may be set at large in the preserves.” Of course, not those birds who have had the forehand of a wing amputated.

Talking of ants’ eggs, which Mr. Knox terms “the right hand of the keeper” in rearing pheasant chicks—it is the first food to be given to them—Mr. Knox says, “Some persons find it difficult to separate the eggs from the materials of the nest. The simplest mode is, to place as much as may be required—ants, eggs, and all—in a bag or light sack, the mouth of which should be tied up. On reaching home, a large white sheet should be spread on the grass, and a few green boughs placed round it on the inside, over which the outer edge of the sheet should be lightly turned; this should be done during sunshine. The contents of the bag should then be emptied into the middle, and shaken out so as to expose the eggs to the light. In a moment, forgetting all considerations of personal safety, these interesting little insects set about removing their precious charge—the cocoons—from the injurious rays of the sun, and rapidly convey them under the shady cover afforded by the foliage of the boughs near the margin of the sheet. In less than ten minutes the work will be completed. It is only necessary then to remove the branches; and the eggs, or cocoons, may be collected by handfuls, unencumbered with sticks, leaves, or any sort of rubbish.”

Mr. Knox goes on to say, that “green tops of barley, leeks, boiled rice, Emden groats, oatmeal, &c.,” are excellent diet for the chicks, but that this kind of food is “almost always given at too early a period. In a state of nature, their food, for a long time, would be wholly insectile.” “Now, as it is not in our power to procure the quantity and variety of small insects and larvÆ which the mother-bird so perseveringly and patiently finds for them, we are obliged to have recourse to ants’ eggs, as easily accessible, and furnishing a considerable supply of the necessary sort of aliment in a small compass.”

“When the chicks are about a week or ten days old, Emden groats and coarse Scotch oatmeal may be mixed with the ants’ eggs; and curds, made from fresh milk, with alum, are an excellent addition. If ants’ nests cannot be procured in sufficient quantities, gentles should occasionally be given.”

When more wasps’ nests are obtained than are required for immediate use, “it will be necessary to bake them for a short time in an oven. This will prevent the larvÆ and nymphs from coming to maturity,—in fact, kill them—and the contents of the combs will keep for some weeks afterwards. Hempseed, crushed and mingled with oatmeal, should be given them when about to wean them from an insect diet. Hard boiled eggs, also, form a useful addition, and may be mixed, for a long time, with their ordinary farinaceous food.”

“Young pheasants are subject to a kind of diarrhoea, which often proves fatal. If the disease be taken in time, boiled milk and rice, in lieu of any other diet, will generally effect a cure. To these chalk may be added, to counteract the acidity which attends this complaint; and should the symptoms be very violent, a small quantity of alum, as an astringent.”

This treatment appears reasonable. Many consider rice a judicious diet in such cases; and I know of a surgeon’s giving boiled milk with great success, in the West Indies, to patients suffering from diarrhoea.

“But the most formidable disease from which the young pheasant suffers is that known by the name of ‘the gapes:’—so termed from the frequent gaping efforts of the bird to inhale a mouthful of air. Chickens and turkeys are equally liable to be affected by it; and it may be remarked, that a situation which has been used, for many successive seasons, as a nursery ground, is more apt to be visited with this plague, than one which has only recently been so employed. Indeed, I have observed that it seldom makes its appearance on a lawn or meadow during the first season of its occupation; and, therefore, when practicable, it is strongly to be recommended, that fresh ground should be applied to the purpose every year: and when this cannot be done, that a quantity of common salt should be sown broadcast over the surface of the earth, after the birds have left it in the autumn.” He elsewhere describes the gapes as that “dreadful scourge, which, like certain diseases that affect the human subject, seems to have been engendered and fostered by excessive population within a limited district.”

“Dissection has proved that the latent cause of this malady is a minute worm of the genius fasciola, which is found adhering to the internal part of the windpipe, or trachea.” Then Mr. Knox explains how this worm may be destroyed; (and only by such means,—the most delicate operator being unable to extract it without materially injuring the young bird)—viz. by fumigating with tobacco-smoke, according to the method (which he fully describes) recommended by Colonel Montagu. If the worm is not destroyed, the death of the bird ensues “by suffocation from the highly inflamed state of the respiratory apparatus.”

I once kept many guinea-birds when abroad; and I am now convinced that I should have succeeded in rearing a far greater number, had I adopted more closely the mode of feeding, &c., here recommended for young pheasants.

In July, ’57, I saw in a large clover field at Sandling, East Kent, 820 pheasant chicks which had been reared by M——n under sixty-six common hens. It was a very interesting sight. I accompanied him round all the coops. They stood about twenty paces apart, and I could not detect a single bird with a drooping wing or of sickly appearance. He told me most positively that he had not lost one by disease, but a few had been trodden under foot by careless, awkward hens, and, what seems curious, some few chicks on quitting the shell had been intentionally killed by the very hens which had hatched them. A hatching hen will sometimes thus destroy ducklings,—but these are far more unlike her natural progeny than are pheasant chicks. M——n found that game-fowls make the best mothers—Cochin-china the worst. He has a prejudice,—how doctors differ! against maggots and ants’ nests. However, he has a right to his notions, for he lost hardly any birds in the year ’56, out of the 400 and upwards that broke the shell. He devotes himself to what, with him, is a labour of love. He has great, and just pride in his success. He maintains that pheasants can be reared cheaper than barn-door fowls, wherever there are woods, as the chicks find their own food at such an early age. The rearing of the birds that I saw and about fifty partridge-chicks, occupied the whole of his time and that of an assistant. There was also a boy to cook, &c. The chicks were fed every two hours throughout the day with a mixture of hard boiled eggs,[124] curds, bread-crumbs, rape and canary seed. The shutter of each hutch doing duty as a tray for the food. After the chicks had fed M——n made his rounds, and scraped into a pot all that was not consumed, being careful that nothing was left to get sour. He gave a small portion of these remains to the imprisoned matrons. He feeds the chicks liberally, yet calculates to a great nicety what will be eaten, for on every shutter a portion, but a very small portion of food was left. Water, kept in earthenware pans made with concentric circles on the ridge and furrow system, was placed at intervals between the hutches. Many times a day he moved the several coops a few feet to fresh ground. At night when all the chicks have joined the hens he fastens the shutters, and does not remove them in the morning until the dew is off the grass. How entirely is this practice opposed to the advice of the Yorkshireman given at the commencement of this note! and yet it might be possible to reconcile the contradictory recommendations by supposing that as soon as the young birds have nearly reached maturity they are allowed to search for insects at the earliest dawn. M——n’s last location for the hutches would be in the centre of the landlord’s property, and they would not be taken away until the hens were quite abandoned by the young pheasants—which in general would be at the end of August. Differing much from Mr. Knox, it was M——n’s practice to keep as many as five hens with one cock for the purpose of obtaining eggs. I observed that some hutches possessed a disproportionate number of inmates. This had arisen from the hutches having been placed in too close proximity before the chicks had the sense to know their respective foster-mothers.

Remarking once after a good battue in cover upon the fine condition of the birds spread in a long array on the lawn for the inspection of the ladies, I was told that the keeper greatly attributed their size and weight to keeping ridge and furrow pans near their feeding places constantly filled with bark-water. He used to boil from a quarter to half a pound of oak-bark in two gallons of water until it was reduced to half the quantity. After once tasting it the pheasants become fond of it, their natural instinct telling them the advantages of the tonic. A cross with the true China makes the young birds hardy and wild. The brilliancy of the plumage is much increased but not the size of the birds. However long Chinese pheasants may be kept in confinement they will be alarmed at the sight of strangers.

Note to 537.—Setters.—Poachers.—Keepers.—Netting Partridges.—Bloodhounds.—Night-dogs.

It is far more easy to get a well broken pointer than a well broken setter; but times may change, for clean farming, the sale of game, poaching, and poisoning of seed-grain, are now carried on to such an extent, and the present game-laws are so inefficacious, that, probably, our children will much prefer the hard-working setter to the pointer. What an encouragement to villany is it that poulterers will give a higher price for game that appears perfectly uninjured, than for what has been shot; and seldom ask questions! It is a pity that the sale of such game cannot be rendered illegal. The destructive net sweeps off whole coveys at a time. The darkest night affords no protection, for the lantern attached to the dog’s neck sufficiently shows when he is pointing at birds. A friend of mine in Kent, some years ago, wanted a partridge in order to break in a young bitch. Under a solemn promise of secrecy he was taken to an attic in an old house, not far from London, where he saw more than a hundred birds, ready for the market against the approaching first of September, running among the sheaves of corn standing in the corners of the room. To prevent the employment of the net, it has been recommended that the fields frequented by partridges should be staked, according to the method successfully followed in some preserved streams: but there are French gamekeepers who adopt a far less troublesome, and more effective plan. They themselves net the coveys at night, as soon as the harvest is collected, and turn them out again on the same ground the next evening, in the fullest confidence that the birds are henceforth safe from the poacher’s net: for, however carefully they may have been handled, they will have been so alarmed, that their distrust and wariness will effectually prevent their being again caught napping. Talking of poaching, I am led to observe that one well-trained bloodhound would be more useful in suppressing poaching than half-a-dozen under-keepers; for the fear poachers naturally entertain of being tracked to their homes at dawn of day, would more deter them from entering a cover, than any dread of being assailed at night by the boldest armed party. Even as compared with other dogs, the sensitiveness of the olfactory nerves of the bloodhound appears marvellous. Let one of pure breed but once take up the scent of a man, and he will hold it under the most adverse circumstances. No cross scents will perplex him.

At two o’clock on a frosty December morning in ’44, when the wind blew bitterly cold from the east, Mr. B——e, of S——d, Warwickshire, was called up by the keepers of a neighbour, Mr. W——n, and informed that some poachers were shooting pheasants in a plantation belonging to Mr. B——e, whose keepers were on the look-out in a different direction. They and Mr. W——n’s had agreed to work in concert, and mutually assist each other.

Mr. B——e instantly dressed, and went out with his brother (Captain B——), and the butler, making a party of eight, including Mr. W——n’s keepers. They took with them a couple of trained bloodhounds in long cords, a regular night-dog, and a young bloodhound which had broken loose, and, unsolicited, had volunteered his services.

On entering the plantation, it was found that the poachers, having become alarmed, had made off. Two of the keepers remained to watch. The bloodhounds were laid on the scent. They took it up steadily, and the rest of the party followed in keen pursuit. As the poachers had not been seen, their number was unknown, but it was supposed to be about six from the report of the guns.

Notwithstanding the cold east wind and sharp frost the hounds hunted correctly, for about three miles, across fields, and along foot-paths and roads, until they came to a wood of three hundred acres. They took the scent into the heart of it, evincing great eagerness. Here the hunt became most exciting, for the poachers were heard in the front crashing through the branches. A council of war was held, which unluckily ended, as many councils of war do, in coming to a wrong decision. It was resolved to divide forces, and endeavour to head the enemy. Captain B——e, two men and one of the old hounds, turned down a ride towards which the poachers seemed to be inclining; while the others continued the direct chase. The poachers, however, soon broke cover, but had not run across many fields ere they were overtaken. The clear, bright moon showed eight well-armed men,—rather a disproportionate force for the attacking three. A fight ensued. The young hound and the watch-dog were shot. Mr. B——e was lamed, and his two men being a good deal hurt, the poachers triumphed and resumed their flight. On Captain B——e rejoining the baffled party the pursuit was renewed for nine miles,—the dogs carrying the scent the whole way into Coventry, where they were stopped.

It was now half-past seven. Many early risers were about the streets; the police offered to point out the poachers, provided their identity could be sworn to. The hounds were stopped. Two men were apprehended—(a third escaped from the police)—were lodged in jail, and subsequently convicted and sentenced to eighteen months’ hard labour. As they had not been seen until the time of the scuffle, which took place fully five miles from Mr. B——e’s plantation, the only evidence to prove they had been poaching there was furnished in the undeviating pursuit of the hounds. The remainder of the gang fled the country.

A farmer, several years ago, sent to the same Mr. B——e to say, that a sheep had been killed and carried off in the night. Six hours, to a certainty,—probably many more,—had elapsed since the animal had been stolen before Mr. B——e could put the only hound he had with him on the scent. The dog, which was loose, hunted very slowly to a barn where the hidden skin was found; and afterwards, without any hesitation, held on the scent from the barn to the residence of a respectable person so wholly beyond all suspicion that the hound was called off. It was so late in the day, and along paths so much frequented, that it was thought the dog must have been hunting other footsteps than those of the real culprit. Mr. B——e at that moment was not aware that the respectable householder had taken in a lodger. This lodger, it subsequently appeared, was the thief, and in bed at the house at the time. Did not the Squire get well laughed at in all the adjacent beer-shops for his softness! However, this hunt, and another not very dissimilar under the head-keeper, effectually suppressed sheep-stealing in that neighbourhood.

The principal initiatory lesson for a bloodhound pup is to teach him to “road” well, as described in 43. He should, too, be perfected in following quietly at “heel.” When commencing to teach him to follow the footsteps of the runner sent on in advance, it will be your aim to make the dog enjoy the scent and carry it on with eagerness. Therefore, that the man’s shoes may prove attractive, have them lightly rubbed with tainted meat (or blood). The savoury application may be progressively diminished in intensity, until at length the pup is guided only by the natural effluvia escaping from the man’s pores. Whenever the dog gets up to him, let it be a rule that he instantly reward the animal liberally with some acceptable delicacy.

After a time the fleetest and most enduring runner should be selected, and the interval between the time of his starting, and the moment when the hound is laid upon the scent, should be by degrees increased, until, at length, an hour and more will intervene.

The first lessons should be given early in the morning, when the dew is not quite off the grass; and the runner should be instructed to take a direction not likely to be crossed by others. Gradually the hound will be made to follow the scent under less favourable circumstances, as respects the state of the ground and the chance of the trail being interfered with.

It will be obvious that the example of an old well-trained hound would be very beneficial to the pup; and, if it can be so managed, he should not be thrown upon his own unaided resources, until he has acquired a tolerable notion of his business.

A young dog that works too fast must be brought to pursue at a pace regulated by your signals (end of iv. of 141). That completes his education.

At night bloodhounds are generally held with a light cord, which restraint appears to lessen their wish to give tongue. Of course, they are checked if they do, that the poachers may not be warned of the pursuit.

A trained bloodhound will seldom endeavour to carry on the scent he has brought into a road, until he has tried the adjacent gates, gaps, and stiles.

Bloodhounds not confined are peaceable and, apparently, cowardly. They will rarely attack, unless provoked; but let them be once roused by a blow, and they become extremely savage. They also soon become savage if chained up, when they evince but little affection or obedience. Should they, by accident, get loose, they will more willingly allow a woman or a child to re-chain them than a man.

Bull-dogs have good noses. I have known of the cross between them and the mastiff being taught to follow the scent of a man almost as truly as a bloodhound. The dog I now particularly allude to was muzzled during the day when accompanying the keeper; and the appearance of the formidable-looking animal, and the knowledge of his powers, more effectually prevented egg-stealing than would the best exertions of a dozen watchers. He was the terror of all the idle boys in the neighbourhood. Every lad felt assured that, if once “Growler” were put upon his footsteps, to a certainty he would be overtaken, knocked down, and detained until the arrival of the keeper. The dog had been taught thus:—As a puppy he was excited to romp and play with the keeper’s children. The father would occasionally make one of them run away, and then set the pup on him. After a time he would desire the child to hide behind a tree, which gradually led the pup to seek by nose. An amicable fight always ensued on his finding the boy; and, as the pup grew stronger, and became more riotous than was agreeable, he was muzzled, but still encouraged to throw down the child. It is easy to conceive how, in a dog so bred, the instincts of nature eventually led to his acting his part in this game more fiercely when put upon the footsteps of a stranger.